Second Chances
by Arameyy
Summary: The Deathlord resurrects the Silver Hand's Highlord, forcing an uncomfortable conversation between two former friends after the assault on Light's Hope Chapel. My interpretation of the events and aftermath of the Death Knight order campaign.


"Good, you're awake," came an echoing voice. "The Deathlord was concerned when the resurrection didn't take hold immediately."

Darion Mograine.

The last thing I remembered was bleeding out, surrounded by demons, and now I was alone with a death knight.

I was on my feet in an instant, one hand reaching for the Ashbringer. The sword was gone from my back, which I should have expected considering I'd been captured. After the attack on Light's Hope, Acherus was enemy territory as much as the Broken Shore.

There was only one reason I could be here.

"Allow me to be the first to welcome you to the Knights of the Ebon Blade, Highlord," he congratulated mockingly.

The knight was sitting in a chair in the corner of the small room, still fully armored but resting casually. His blade was propped against the wall next to the door, just out of reach, but he didn't seem concerned in the least. Probably thought that I was no threat dead and unarmed.

But a servant of the Light is never truly unarmed.

I called on its power as I'd done a million times before, only to immediately cut the connection with an agonized cry as liquid fire seared my veins.

The Light had never burned me before, not once, not even when I was a novice paladin with no experience in magic. The instant I'd channeled it was enough to leave me shaking, as the strength of my connection allowed me to feel just how _repulsed_ the Light was by my new existence.

"Damn you," I hissed. "You're monsters, every last one of you."

Mograine stared at me impassively. I might not be able to fight him - forsaken by the Light, untrained in their dark magic - but I could still arm myself with my words.

And I certainly had some very strong words for the Knights of the Ebon Blade.

"This is because you couldn't get Tirion, isn't it," I snarled. "Can't get one Highlord, so you'll settle for another? Or is it something else - cripple the Silver Hand now so you can take us out easier later? If she thinks I'll _ever_ turn-"

" _She_ thought you'd be willing to put our differences aside and accept the second chance you've been given to fight the Legion and avenge Fordring," came a familiar voice.

I turned my head sharply. There in the doorway stood the Deathlord.

She had worn a helm while attacking the Sanctum of Light, but now I had the opportunity to really look at her. Once-blonde hair dulled to nearly gray, deathly pale skin, ice blue eyes: a corruption of the face that had once belonged to my best friend. I forced myself to look away, instead directing my gaze to my hands. They were just as pale as she was; had my eyes taken on the same unearthly glow?

Elara Mitchell had been a priestess of the Light before she came a paladin, in contrast to my more humble beginnings as a sword-for-hire. She'd been a bit on the prissy side, but had a good heart, and dedicated herself to aiding the injured, the sick, and the elderly. After the Fall of Lordaeron she hadn't followed our order to Stormwind. Instead, she'd chosen to stay behind to help who she could, until her will was broken.

Elara Darkwill was a mystery. I'd had one unpleasant encounter with her when she still served the Scourge, but hadn't spoken to her since. Even after the death knights' defection and the formation of the Ashen Verdict I'd been unable to bear the prospect of a real conversation with her after all the things she'd done. I barely acknowledged her during the campaign in Northrend, and had tried to put her out of my mind since the death of Arthas.

What I did know of her primarily through observation and reputation. The Knights of the Ebon Blade appeared to respect her combat prowess, but didn't seem to particularly like her, and I'd gotten the impression that they tolerated her more than anything else. The news that she'd been named Deathlord over Mograine had come as a surprise.

For the longest time I had wanted to believe that there was some shred of decency left in her, some tiny part of her blackened soul that could still feel remorse, but I'd seen nothing reassuring. The only thing I could be certain of, especially in light of the assault on my order, was that I was not dealing with my dear friend Ela.

"'Put aside our differences,'" I repeated incredulously. "You broke into my home, murdered my people, and tried to reanimate the corpse of my teacher! You expect me to just pretend none of that happened now that I'm as cold and dead as you?"

"It's more complicated than that." There was unexpected pain in Elara's voice, perhaps even a hint of regret.

Her emotion caught me entirely off-guard, and I felt an unwelcome stirring from my long-suppressed hopes.

 _Don't let yourself be blinded by compassion,_ I warned myself, crushing those hopes back down. _Some people are beyond redemption._

"I don't see what could be so complicated about betraying your allies," I challenged, daring her to prove me wrong.

Elara took a deep breath, before letting out a sharp command: "Darion, leave us."

"Yes, Deathlord." Mograine gave a short bow, picked up his sword, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. For a minute both of us were silent, watching each other, as the sound of footsteps faded down the hall.

"Clem, please hear me out," Ela began.

"Give me one good reason I should even _consider_ working with you after what you tried to do to Tirion and what you _did_ do to me," came my reply.

"You remember the Frozen Throne - remember how Bolvar took the Helm of Domination, promised to hold the Scourge at bay for the good of Azeroth?"

"How could I forget," I murmured. "Bolvar was a good man. He didn't deserve that fate."

"Arthas was a good man once, too. Everyone who's donned that helm has walked the same road."

"You're not saying-"

No. It couldn't be.

"That's exactly what I'm saying. The Lich King, Bolvar Fordragon, is holding the Knights of the Ebon Blade hostage. He's threatened to unleash the Scourge unless we carry out his will." Elara delivered this with the voice of a woman who'd received a death sentence.

If this was true, it would change everything.

It was like the whole world had shifted ninety degrees, as I was forced to reconsider the image of Elara Darkwill I'd constructed in my head. Not a selfish, unrepentant murderer who changes allegiance like I change clothes, but a victim brought to heel by dark power she didn't dare defy.

"By the Light! Who else knows?" I asked.

"Nobody outside the order. They wouldn't have gone along with half the things we'd been forced to do if they didn't know, and we can't make it public without consequence."

"You didn't have to let it get this far! If you'd just told me - _anyone_ \- as soon as he delivered that ultimatum, you would've had allies! The Silver Hand would've helped, we'd reform the Ashen Verdict, and-"

"And then we'd have millions of undead swarming over us in addition to the Legion. No, for the good of Azeroth, we can't defy him until the Legion is destroyed," Elara interrupted me again. I'd always hated when she did that, ever since she'd come to the Silver Hand as a high-and-mighty priestess thinking that just because she already had a connection to the Light she was better than us.

Pushing the past to the back of my mind, I considered her words. "So you brought me back to have another ally against the Lich King."

"Yes, but not yet. For now we need to bide our time. Once the Legion is gone I want to quietly get the support of the other orders without tipping off too many other Knights - if the Lich King gets wind of the plan early he'll unleash the Scourge before we can prepare any defenses. I've been putting together an attack plan in my free moments, but it would be great to have a second head working on it," Elara explained.

A terrifying thought appeared in my mind. "How are you able to keep this from him? Isn't he in your head? Light, is he in mine?" the pitch of my voice went higher and higher.

"He's in contact with me, sometimes, but as far as I know he can't actively read my thoughts. I believe it's the same for most of the other Knights. The Four Horseman, though… I don't trust them. They listen to me, yes, but they were raised under his power, and it's very likely that they're under his control."

"And me?" I pressed.

"I brought you back myself, with my own power, not his. Your thoughts should be safe from intrusion," she assured me.

I breathed a sigh of relief, then realized to my horror that I had not been breathing before.

"But," she continued, "He wanted you. He _really_ wanted you. I had to push hard for the chance to bring you back myself - I spun a sob story about reuniting with my dearest friend in death, but I don't think that was enough to keep him from getting suspicious. It wouldn't surprise me if you notice a Horseman or two following you around. You'll have to play your part perfectly - you can't be Highlord of the Silver Hand anymore. Stop being a hero. You're a death knight as much as any of us, and we do what the living cannot."

And there was the reminder that Elara Mitchell was dead and gone, and she expected me to throw away my morals as easily as she had.

I felt sick.

"Great," I replied. "Just great. Is there any chance I could get a message to Liadrin? Once she gets wind of this she'll bring an army to your doorstep, considering you did at Light's Hope. Are you even sorry about that?"

"Every choice I've made since the formation of the Ebon Blade has been to protect Azeroth. I won't apologize for choosing the world over the lives of a dozen paladins." Her tone was dismissive, but I was done being dismissed.

"Protect Azeroth?" I laughed without humor. "Everything you've ever done has been for power. Don't try to justify all the lives you've taken under Arthas and on your own by claiming it was for the good of Azeroth. Doing evil in the name of good is still evil."

Elara's hands twitched towards her blades, reforged from the shards of Frostmourne, but she caught herself, instead clenching her fists in her lap.

"I'd hoped we could be friends again, Clem," she forced out, "But I can see that our differences are irreconcilable."

Like it was my fault, like I'd marched into Acherus with an army of paladins and murdered her companions, like she hadn't spat over everything we'd stood for in the Silver Hand time and time again.

"Fine then, _Deathlord,_ " I replied, voice as cold as hers. "I'll pretend to be your loyal soldier to avert suspicion. I'll pour everything I have into defeating the Legion, and when they're gone, I'll take down another Lich King. But I will _never_ turn my blade on the innocent, and when all is said and done, I'm going to find Lady Liadrin, beg for her forgiveness, request a quick death, and hope for burial with my brothers and sisters of the Silver Hand. Anything I'm missing?"

"Yes. Forget the Silver Hand. They're not your brothers and sisters any more, we are."

After everything she'd done, she had the gall to try to call herself my sister?

How dare she.

"You gave up any claim to being my sister the day you willingly joined the Scourge."

Elara Darkwill stood abruptly, her face carefully blank despite the way her hands were shaking. Her armor clinked with every measured step she took towards the door, and she threw it open before stalking out, leaving it to swing slowly shut behind her.

* * *

A/N: The Death Knight class campaign was terribly written. Bolvar is blackmailing them, but this is mentioned once and then forgotten; Blizzard takes a steaming dump on the 'tortured anti-hero seeking redemption' narrative integral to DKs; none of the NPC death knights express much concern with the fact that they're going back to their Scourge days; and the player DK is completely fine with all the the messed-up stuff that's going on.

This is my attempt at writing a slightly more cohesive narrative.

Cross-posted on AO3.


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